“Yes?” said the other, patiently.

And Jimmie groped round in his addled head for something really worth while.  “You’ll want to see the Committee?”

“No,” said the other, “I want to finish this first.”  And he took a sip from a glass of milk, and a bite out of a sandwich, and chewed.

So utterly rattled was Jimmie he sat there like a num-skull, unable to find a word, while the man finished his repast.  When it was over, Jimmie said again—­he could do no better—­“You want to see the Committee?”

“No,” was the reply, “I want to sit here—­and perhaps talk to you, Comrade—­Comrade—?”

“Higgins,” said Jimmie.

“Comrade Higgins—­that is, if you have time.”

“Oh, sure!” exclaimed Jimmie.  “I got all the time there is.  But the Committee—­”

“Never mind the Committee, Comrade.  Do you know how many Committees I have met on this trip?”

Jimmie did not know; nor did he have the courage to ask.

“Probably you never thought how it is to be a Candidate,” continued the other.  “You go from place to place, and make the same speech every night, and it seems as if you slept in the same hotel every night, and almost as if you met the same Committee.  But you have to remember that your speech is new to each audience, and you have to make it as if you had never made it before; also you have to remember that the Committee is made up of devoted comrades who are giving everything for the cause, so you don’t tell them that they are just like every other committee, or that you are tired to death, or maybe have a headache—­”

Jimmie sat, gazing in awe-stricken silence.  Not being a man of reading, he had never heard of “the head that wears a crown”.  This was his first glimpse into the soul of greatness.

The Candidate went on:  “And then, too, Comrade, there’s the news from Europe.  I want a little time.  I can’t bring myself to face it!”

His voice had grown sombre, and to Jimmie, gazing at him, it seemed that all the sorrows of the world were in his tired grey eyes.  “Perhaps I’d better go,” said Jimmie.

“No no,” replied the other, with quick self-recovery.  He looked and saw that Jimmie had forgotten his meal.  “Bring your things over here,” he said; and the other fetched his cup and saucer and plate, and gulped the rest of his “sinkers” under the Candidate’s eyes.

“I oughtn’t to talk,” said the latter.  “You see how hoarse I am.  But you talk.  Tell me about the local, and how things are going here.”

So Jimmie summoned his courage.  It was the one thing he could really talk about, the thing of which his mind and soul were full.  Leesville was a typical small manufacturing city, with a glass bottle works, a brewery, a carpet-factory, and the big Empire Machine Shops, at which Jimmie himself spent sixty-three hours of his life each week.  The workers were asleep, of course; but still you couldn’t complain, the movement was growing.  The local boasted of a hundred and twenty members, though of course, only about thirty of them could be counted on for real work.  That was the case everywhere, the Candidate put in—­it was always a few who made the sacrifice and kept things alive.